She died anyway.
And Joy won’t stop crying. She cried herself to sleep at the neighbor’s house last night when we got the news from one of Grams’ friends. I cried too, but only after she was asleep. While her little body shook and shuddered, promise after promise spilled from my lips. That I’d always be here for her. I’d never leave her. That we’d have each other. That our entire family is now looking down on us, watching over us from heaven with the angels.
Even if I didn’t believe the words, I said it for her. Nothing cheered her up. The light in her eyes died and shows no sign of ever returning.
But we have our matching lockets now.
Something to connect us to our past.
Something to keep us going.
* * *
Three days after Grams died, everything changes.
My heart sinks when he shows up.
Joy’s father. Momma’s ex-husband.
I didn’t get to know him well before they separated. He traveled a lot for work, but when he was around, Momma was happy. He was kind too, and never mistreated me or looked at me any differently, considering I wasn’t his child. When he left, Momma said it was for the best. Joy was a year old at the time so she doesn’t know him at all.
He has a new wife and two younger children. A good career. A home. He tells Mrs. Billings and social services that Joy is better off living with him because she’s his daughter.
They agree.
To his credit, he makes the same case for me, stating that Momma wouldn’t want Joy and me to be split apart, which is the reason he allowed Grams to have custody of us both when Momma passed.
The social services representative doesn’t agree.
Joy’s dad stays in town for three weeks fighting the system for me. But no one can put their life on hold forever for someone who isn’t blood while their entire family is in limbo almost three thousand miles away on the other side of the country.
He takes Joy and promises to keep fighting for me.
A month passes. Then six. I give up after a year. But I never give up on Joy. We exchange letters and emails and speak on the phone every chance we get.
* * *
Five Years Ago
Everything goes silent.
The day after Joy’s thirteenth birthday.
Their phone number changes.
Joy’s letters stop coming.
My emails are bounced back.
I found out a week later that Joy’s father has been transferred to somewhere in Europe by his company, and he took the family with him.
Everyone except for Joy.
An officer from the local police department contacts me to let me know that she ran away the night before the rest of the family flew out. With Joy’s dad and step-mother in another country, all the cops have to go by is a phone call to report her missing. They interview her friends at school, which is no help at all, then they reach out to me.
At eighteen years of age, I’m Joy’s only living adult relative. The cops ask me to keep on the lookout in case she shows up or tries to contact me.
I do.
Every day. Every night. I comb the local bus stations every chance I got, hoping she shows up. I reach out to all her friends on social media and email her teachers at school all the time. Every Saturday, I cook her favorite dish. Macaroni and hot dogs. No, it’s not gourmet food, but she loved it whenever Grams would prepare it for us. I’d make a big batch, keep one serving on the warmer, and put the rest into six bowls which I’d freeze.
Just in case she showed up.
Every week, I play with the recipe to make it taste better. It becomes a habit. My thing. I love the kitchen because it was Grams’ favorite room in the house.
But no amount of cooking and no amount of wishing has brought Joy back to me.
I’m so close to losing my mind. It gets worse as the days pass. And weeks turn to months. The police phone me to inform me that they have no reason to believe something terrible has happened to her. That teenage runaways are close to impossible to find if they stay off the grid. It’s a cold case, they say. She could be a Jane Doe.
On the one-year anniversary of her disappearance, the police tell me that her file is officially a cold case file. They gave up.
I start to lose hope. I stop cooking her favorite dish every week. To stop my heart from breaking into a million pieces that no one can ever put back together again, I force myself to prepare a meal for her one more time. When it’s done, I write her a letter and will myself to move on.
Maybe I’m wrong to give up.
I’m still shattered.
My sister may still be out there.
Four
Emily
Present Day
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My hands shake as I stare through the porthole windows of these stainless steel double doors. I never thought I’d have an opportunity to work in the catering kitchen of the Six-Twenty Loft here at the Rockefeller Center. And now, this first time may very well be my last.
“You really want me to go out there?” I timidly ask my boss.
“I really do.”
“What does she want?”
“To talk to you.”
“Did she at least say if she liked it?”
“I didn’t get that far.”
Crap. “So, okay, Chef Rasmus. I’ll go and find out what she wants.”
“Awesome. And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Blair?” he asks with a roll of his eyes. “Chef Rasmus sounds like the name of an anal-retentive stick in the mud. Chef Blair isn’t too bad, but you’re staff. Call me Blair, all right Blondie?”
“Okay.” I guess if he’s comfortable enough to give me a nickname of his own making based on my hair color, I can tone down the formality and call him by his first name. Blair Rasmus is the thirty-nine-year-old celebrity Chef who gave me the absolute honor of serving tonight as an Assistant Chef. My first real chef gig ever. It’s a posh fundraising gala that I never thought I’d be invited to cook for in a million years. Even though my best friend, Dahlia is here, a guest of some hot billionaire she met. Now that’s what I call luck, a date with a man living in the penthouse condo next to the place where she’s dog sitting three fur babies.
Being here as an assistant chef is a dream come true. The ultimate experience. At least I thought it was until the woman who hired him asks a wait staff to speak to the chef. But when Blair goes out to talk to her, she mentions it’s about the dill cucumber and tomato bites.
My dill and cucumber bites.
The ones I made from scratch. The ones Blair loves so much that he let me make a massive batch to serve at tonight’s event. And this middle-aged woman on the other side of these kitchen doors wants to speak to me about it. I’m usually very good at reading people. Usually. Not this time. Not this gorgeous, seemingly timeless blonde. She’s wearing a floor-length designer dress that probably costs more than my entire Culinary Arts program tuition at Columbia U. I can tell more about her from her fucking dress than from that flat, expressionless look on her face.
She didn’t complain about my food to Blair, but fuck, if she disses it to my face, I won’t be able to stand there and take it. More likely than not, my mouth will do what it does in my defense, and something raw and unfiltered will come out.
If that happens, it’s game over for me.
Dammit.
Removing my apron, I hang it on the hook beside the door, straighten the rest of my chef’s uniform, and push through the double doors to face my fate.
“Good evening, ma’am,” I say to the woman, who must’ve been chatting with someone because her back is turned and her hand is raised in a prim and proper queen’s wave toward a cluster of men who appear to be much closer to my age than hers. All but one of them return her wave with a respectful nod. The tall one with black horn-rimmed styled glasses has his eyes on me. He’s pretty damn good looking too. Especially with those sexy as fuck glasses, the warmth of his dazzling smi
le, his square, manly jawline, and a distinctly muscular, chiseled body under that tuxedo.
She turns to look at me, pulling me away from Mister Nerdy Sex God. “Yes, darling?”
I give her a polite smile and force myself to look at her and not the guy whose eyes are still locked onto me. I wish I knew what his deal is, but to be honest, even as he flashes me a charming smile, my mind is on this woman and the reason she requested to have a one on one with me.
I clear my throat and swallow that lump of nervous energy blocking my throat. “Good evening. Chef Rasmus mentioned that you wanted to speak with me?”
“Ahhhh, yes. Did you make those little cucumber things? The ones on those crispy pita triangles with that creamy dill sauce on top?”
I’m tempted to shake my head but nod instead. “Yes, ma’am. I made them.”
She stands there silently. Only her eyes move as they move up and down, taking me in.
“I can bring you something else to clear your palate if you didn’t find them satisfactory,” I offer with much hesitation.
“Did you make it yourself? All of it?”
“I did, ma’am.”
“And can you make other types of hors-d’oeuvres that complement this one?”
“I can, but as I mentioned, I’d happily find you something else to—”
“That won’t be necessary, dear,” she says stiffly. “By any chance, do you take catering orders?”
If it weren’t for that question, I’d honestly still have no fucking clue whether or not this lady wants to hurl insults at me or rave about my appetizer. Must be too many years of Botox usage. Also, the truth is, I haven’t ever done a catering order of my own. The most I ever did on a large scale before tonight’s event is feed all my classmates in culinary school. Although, I did help prepare Thanksgiving dinner for three hundred homeless people at a local soup kitchen.
Deciding it’s best not to embarrass my highly experienced boss by providing those unimpressive examples, I choose the alternative. I lie. Worst case scenario, if Blair doesn’t want to risk associating his business to this potential catering gig by providing his more than ample kitchen, I’m pretty sure the large kitchen at the condo where Dahlia’s staying will suffice.
“Yes, ma’am. I do…cater on a part-time basis.”
“Excellent.” She reaches into her shimmering little clutch purse and pulls out a glossy business card. An expensive one, made of the kind of thick card stock people hold onto because they know it came from someone important. It reads:
Wilkes Macmillan LLC
Diane Worthington
Senior Partner
Attorney at Law
“Here’s my card. I’m hosting a little party in a few weeks and would love it if you’ll serve this and possibly three or four more appetizers. They’re just lovely, and they taste absolutely divine. How about I swing by your kitchen in a few days to sample some other options?”
Oh fuck. Swing by my kitchen? She’d be appalled if she saw the sad excuse for a food preparation space at the five-story Brooklyn walk-up apartment I share with Dahlia and my other friend, Rose. And I sure as shit won’t dare to offer Blair’s kitchen or Dahlia’s boss’s condo, not without asking first.
“Uh, I’d be happy to bring the samples to you,” I suggest, thinking on my feet. “My weekday availability isn’t as flexible, but I’m more than willing to come after six in the evenings, or anytime on weekends.”
“That would be perfect. Weekends work best, as I can show you the party space. That way, you’ll know what you need to bring along.”
“Great! Do you have a rough estimate of the size of your guest list?”
“We’re up to one hundred at the moment, but it would be prudent to plan for about a hundred and fifty people.”
A server leaving the kitchen gets my attention as he passes by and I turn around, briefly glancing at the windows in time to see Blair signaling for me to wrap it up.
“Sure! I’ll phone you tomorrow evening to set it up,” I tell the woman excitedly. Or do you prefer an email?”
“Either is fine. Thanks.” She turns and leaves to continue schmoozing or whatever people do at these events.
“Thank you for the business and have a great evening!” I shout after her, and return to the kitchen smiling from ear to ear.
Blair turns off the flame of the crème brûlée torch in his hand and looks over at me from his prep station. “I take it she liked your hors-d’oeuvres?”
“She did! So much so, I think I just got my first catering order. That’s not a problem, right? I mean, I guess I should’ve asked you first.”
“Knock yourself out, Blondie. I’m booked up for the next six months.”
“Are you sure, boss?” I lift the woman’s business card to his eye level. “She’s loaded if this card and that designer dress mean anything.”
“Positive. I don’t do lawyers. Their parties are liable to attract threats of legal woes if they’re not happy with your service. But that won’t happen to you. That woman just adores you.”
“And you know that how exactly?”
He raises his eyebrows and faces the crème brûlée torch toward his sweet glazed pastries. “I can tell these things. Call it a hunch. By the way, we’re a little short staffed. So…as your dish is such a hit, would you mind carrying out a few trays and serving them yourself? Think of it as the highest honor for an assistant chef in my kitchen. And if anyone asks, feel free to brag that it’s your signature special. It might bring you some more business. God knows I couldn’t handle another client right now. Congrats!”
“Uh, sure.”
I head back to my station and scoop up one of the enormous empty, circular silver trays. One by one, I carefully place my handiwork onto it. It occurs to me that I should have some idea of what to charge this Diane Worthington lady, so I can at least have a snowball’s chance in hell of breaking even on this gig.
“What kind of fee is reasonable for a gig like the one this lady wants?” I ask Blair, slowing down at this station again. I’m grateful for the slew of waitressing jobs I held down during part-time since my last year of high school, otherwise balancing this monstrosity would be a real pain in the ass.
“What kind of numbers are you dealing with? And by that, I mean how many guests, and how many items?”
“It’s for a hundred and fifty people. She mentioned four or five appetizers, I think.”
“For this elite crowd? I wouldn’t dare charge less than around two hundred or so.”
“Dollars?”
“Yes, although that’s what I charge, and I’m a three and a half star rated professional chef with street cred.”
“That’s all?”
“You really want more than a couple hundred dollars per person starting out?” he asks and shakes his head. “That’s what’s wrong with the culinary world today. You millennials. But more power to you, Blondie. If she goes for it, why the hell not?”
“Hang on, two hundred bucks per person?” I repeat, and he nods. “That would mean…” My eyes widen as I struggle to do the math. I was never good with numbers, but a hundred and fifty people times one or two hundred dollars makes, well that adds up to a hell of a lot of money for one gig.
I pat the business card that’s now sitting in my pants pocket. The second I get back from serving this food I’m snapping a photo of her business card with my smartphone. No way can I afford to lose or misplace her contact information. Dollar signs fill my head, and I can barely wait to crunch those numbers in my phone calculator tonight. This assistant chef is more than ready to pimp these hors-d’oeuvres to every man, woman, and child at this shindig if it’ll mean another catering inquiry.
As I circulate through the crowd of well-dressed guests, my eyes meet Mister Nerdy Sex God’s. Damn, he’s fine, and he won’t stop burning a hole through me with those intense eyes behind those sexy specs. In another time or place, I’d for sure wander over to him and give him a shot. Not that I’m on the da
ting scene or anything. I’ve barely been on a few dates since I started college. But then again, I don’t remember anyone I was attracted to giving me the kind of attention this guy has been paying me all evening.
Another time. Another place for sure.
Five
Dylan
I take a sip from my glass of whiskey when I make it to my buddy, Jackson’s side. “Where’d you find her?” I ask, referring to the girl he brought as his date tonight.
Jackson runs his hands down the seam of his perfectly pressed tuxedo, his eyes glued to his date as she walks off in the direction of the restrooms. “She’s sort of a neighbor.”
“That’s one hot girl next door,” I tell him after downing another mouthful of the amber liquid. “Kinda young, but hot. Who was her chef friend?”
I still can’t keep my eyes off of the little blonde chef, and I don’t know why. The moment that I first see her at the fundraising gala that my mother organized, it does something to me.
“No idea,” Jackson answers. “Want me to ask?”
“Nah. I can find out.”
He nods and flashes me a grin. “I remember the lengths you go to for a piece of ass.”
Besides probably being the most analytical and numerically gifted person in this room filled with New York’s most elite and powerful families, I can confidently say that I’m very likely the most adept at chasing tail. Even more so than my buddies Foster and Caleb. My two best friends since childhood, Jace and Jackson, would agree. Which is why Jackson would know.
I smile. “Whatever it fucking takes. It’s not much different from your brother.”
We proceed to chat about Jackson’s track record of doing crazy shit, his brother, Jace’s dating choices, and share a few words on the Mont Blanc deal we’re working on, but to be honest, it’s not in the least bit interesting to me. That’s just one side of my brain running on automatic pilot. I’m appeasing a conversation while my eyes take in the sexy blonde chef.
The Billionaire and the Virgin Chef: Seduction and Sin, Book 4 Page 2
